


Dr. Feelgood

by KryptoniteTie



Series: Welcome to My Nightmare (Tommy Series) [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Beef Stew For The Soul, Bruises, Eating Disorders, Father-Son Relationship, Ford is a Good Dad, Gen, Honestly This Was Vent, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Magic Cure and HRTea, Self-Hatred, Trans Male Character, Unsafe Binding Techniques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 14:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14672835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KryptoniteTie/pseuds/KryptoniteTie
Summary: An in-between for the first and next fics. Ford has to deal with some of Tommy's bad habits.[Edit} Fixed the formatting





	Dr. Feelgood

The morning glow of the kitchen was, nonexistent. It was four in the morning. Owls could still be heard from outside. However, that didn't stop a certain Stanford Pines from brewing up a pot of coffee, and making a bit of a breakfast for himself and his new assistant, whom he hoped was coming upstairs shortly.

Stanford had gotten into the habit of preparing meals at his brother’s request, not because Stanley was unable to cook, but because Ford simply needed to eat. Sometimes in the past, the man could’ve gone weeks without anything but coffee in his system. A fact that scared the life out of them both. So, the brothers thought up a simple solution. Have Ford prepare the food, hoping the smell and knowing what went in it would work up his appetite. Fortunately, they were right on the money, and through some slight struggling, were able to curb Ford’s awful starving habit.

Scrambled eggs, two cuts of cooked ham, and four pancakes were plated neatly on two ceramic dishes as a groggy young adult stumbled into the kitchen. A bright smile lit up Ford’s face. The boy had impeccable timing.

“Good morning, Thomas!” He said with a soft warmth.

Tommy moaned and slid past him as Ford tried to hand him his plate. The boy grabbed a mug, poured himself some brew, and emptied what must have been half a bag of sugar and a quart of milk into his glass. Ford looked on gobsmacked as Tommy quickly shot the concoction down like a cheap liquor and rinsed the mug out in the sink. Almost blindly, the boy then grabbed his pack from the hat rack and stood at the door, as if waiting for a cue.

Ford, knowing that any fight would be fruitless, begrudgingly wrapped up one plate in foil and ate at his own, still trying to comprehend how one could fit that much milk and sugar into a medium sized mug.

  
\-----

  
After breakfast, Ford proceeded to the door, equipment in tow, but found Tommy no longer standing beside it. A rustling noise could be heard outside. Raccoons? He opened the door and was greeted by darkness, and a struggling shape just beyond the porch. He took out a flashlight at aimed it where the garbage can would be.

Halfway in, digging through it, was his missing ward. The boy wormed his way out of the filth, something clutched in his mouth. It looked like it may have been a burrito of some kind, but the sight of it dangling from the boy’s teeth much as a rabid animal clutched its prey, filled Stanford with disgust. The animalistic nature of the ordeal brought to mind a few very dark times he himself had to scavenge like that. Tommy hardly noticed the light shone on him as he scarfed down the remains, wiping his mouth on his jacket sleeve. As he tugged the cloth across his face, Stanford saw hints of the scabbed flesh on the soft part of his arms. Burn marks. Possibly from the lighter he saw in the boy’s jacket pocket. Ford wondered where else had this boy ripped apart at his own body.

He then saw Tommy hack and cough, as if his chest was held down too tightly.

He had seen enough.

Like lightning, Ford grabbed Tommy by his upper arm and dragged him back inside. The young man was in no shape to do any sort of exploration or assistance. He was hardly in any shape to be up and about if what Ford saw indicated anything. It was time to help him kick these habits.

  
\-----

  
“I don't care. Take off the sweatshirt, now.”

The pair were held up in the downstairs restroom on Ford’s request, with an entire first-aid kit by the sink. The damage Tommy’d done to himself had to be evaluated, and treated accordingly. It was hard to judge what couldn't be seen.

“Doctor Pines, I…. I ain't got a shirt on underneath….”

Ford pinched his brow. “I don't care. Those burns could get dangerously infected, Thomas. I need to see how many you’ve inflicted on yourself.”

Shyly, Tommy began taking off the hoodie. Once it was over his head, Ford saw the boy’s chest was bound tight in bandages, which squeezed like a boa into his chest. It was worse than he feared.

Once Tommy took the entire jacket off and tossed it to the ground, Ford shook his head.

“Thomas, please, take those off too.”

“N-no way Dr. Pines! I…..it’s fine!”

“It won't be fine when one of your lungs gets punctured by a broken rib. Please, I won't look for long, just to see how badly you’ve warped yourself. I'll even get you a shirt for the meantime.”

Tommy looked as if he was carefully considering his options. He was quiet for far longer than Stanford would been comfortable with. The boy clenched his fists.

“Awlright. Just, please not too long.”

Carefully, Tommy unwound the vice grip of the constrictive bindings with much hesitation. There was a wince of pain from both parties as the last wrap-around was undone. The blues and violets of prolonged restraint looked tender to touch, and his ribcage looked very irregular. His chest heaved up and then back down again, a full breath of air finally in his lungs. The scabbed and blistered flesh was also more visible now, as it went all the way up Tommy’s arms, and even a little at his stomach. Stanford covered his eyes, trying not to let his assistant see him cry. How could anyone do this to themselves? Willingly?

“Once I get the shirt, your arms are going to be wrapped and treated, and you’re going to sit on the recliner in the den with a blanket over you, while you watch some old movies I have lying around. No ifs ands or buts.”

Tommy's head nodded in submission.

“-and, you are also going to eat the breakfast I made you. Every last bite. That’s my job for you today. Is that understood?”

“Yessir.”  
  


\-----

 

An hour and a half into some old sci-fi flick, and Tommy was really starting to feel the sting of his own wounds. The comfort he let himself feel as he propped up the leg rest only served to drive home how much everything else hurt. His chest, his ribs, his arms, even his stomach after he puked up the old burrito (upon Dr. Pines’ request) shook with aches and quivered in a slicing pain.

A robot screamed as a kettle in the kitchen did the same. It’d taken some time, but Ford had scrounged around and found all the things needed for this special tea brew. After grinding the ingredients into a mulch, he scooped the concoction up into a filter bag and tied it with a string, giving the bag a tail. A small gold tag was tied at the end of the string, for aesthetic purposes mainly. Seemed uncouth to not at least make everything you create look just a tad bit visually appealing. He felt it added a certain neatness and order to it, and showed a pride in his work.

As he set the bag into a mug of hot water to brew, Stanford also pulled out a vial he had in a cooler originally from the Stan-O-War II. The opaque and glowing green sap moved like molasses as the tube was tilted back and forth, Ford checking the viscosity. It was hardly his last sample, but he still didn't want to use too much, as he didn't know it's effects when overexposed to a human system. A single drop was added to the tea as the water was now a deep purple color. Stanford stirred it lightly. Blue streaks spiraled with the movement of the spoon. A light herbal and peppermint smell wafted upwards. Good. It didn't turn acidic and melt the cup. For a moment, it was a legitimate worry.

His hand firmly on the handle, a potholder clasping the hot porcelain, Ford slowly made his way over to Tommy, handed him the mug and sat down on the giant skull his brother had repurposed as a sort of extra space for food or people to sit. Soos’ abuelita knitted in another chair nearby. She nodded at Ford as he looked over at her.

“He has been….. breathing strange.” She said, not even looking up.

Ford returned the head bob.

“It’s possible a cracked rib’s been jabbing into his lungs. It’s lucky I caught him when I did.”

Tommy sat up more to try and drink his hot beverage as he rolled his eyes. “Sittin’ right here ya’know?”

“We know.”

With his arms heavily bandaged up, it was slightly hard to bend them and get the lip of the glass close to his own. One sip however, made him eager for more. The taste was nearly indescribable. So sweet and fruity like, but with a hint of herbs to it, yet also, a taste of maple syrup? Tommy didn't care, he slurped and lapped it up, when the contents stopped burning a hole in his mouth.

Stanford smiled.

The warm liquid flowed within Tommy, almost therapeutically. Well, much more than just simply therapeutically. His breathing got much easier and less painful, as the sharp pain in his side was gone. The assistant had to stop for a second as his entire sunken rib cage surged upward from underneath his shirt, realigning. Tommy placed his hand over his sternum as he gasped in the utter shock of it all. That couldn't have been any ordinary tea.

“Works wonders, doesn't it?” Ford smirked. “I added some tree sap I found in my travels with Stan to your drink. It's not exactly the fountain of youth locals told us about, but I like to think it’s the next best thing. It’s let both Stan and I turn back the clock a little, as far as arthritis is concerned.”

Tommy couldn't help but agree. But then, what was the rest of the brew?

He sipped, slower this time, to really savor the drink. Hints of a mature flavor he missed the first time spread across his tongue like a stormy wave. There was a grit to it, a bit like gravel, and a taste that can only be described as the aftermath of a punch to the face. A tart musk was hidden under the peppermint smell, and the way it slid down his throat almost made him feel like his voice had dropped ten octaves. As one might say, it could've put some hair on his chest.

“What exactly kinda tea is this?”

Abuelita continued to knit her blanket as Stanford stood up to head back into the kitchen.

“It’s made from a root quite popular with these beings known as Manotaurs, but the taste of it alone is admittedly deplorable. When I was younger, I often mixed a similar blend up as a bit of a pre-workout drink, but I thought you’d might appreciate it more.”

To Tommy’s confusion, Stanford shot him a wink as he darted away. With what the old man seemed to imply... This, couldn't have been what he thought it was, could it?

  
\-----

 

The following hours were uneventful. The bickering between the Pines twins, both young and old, plus the regularly scheduled tours of the Shack, supplied all the background noise necessary for Tommy to melt into the chair and relax. Abuelita’s soaps melded together into the old sci-fi tapes, blurring in Tommy’s mind. The acting and plots were both just as outlandish, at any rate.

It was in the midst of a half-nap that the smell from the kitchen wafted into the living room. Beef stewing in a pot, and the subtle sounds of skin peeling off of a potato wrapped around Tommy’s sleepy mind. His stomach growled. Loudly. In response, he woke up fully, and shuffled into the kitchen. How could anyone sleep on an empty belly?

The scene before him was a quaint and domestic one. Soos was chopping vegetables as Abuelita cooked the broth, humming a tune Tommy had heard from one of the soap operas. To his right, at the kitchen table, was Dr. Pines himself. Next to him was a glass bowl filled with both peeled and unpeeled potatoes, and a trash can with the cut-off skins as it’s stuffing. Ford noticed Tommy out of the corner of his eye.

“Good afternoon, Thomas.”

Tommy yawned as he rubbed the sleep out of his eye, the too-big shirt draping over him like a poncho. Ford couldn't help but note how young his new assistant looked. The boy barely seemed a day over fourteen, yet he’s the same age as Ford's adoptive nephew, Soos. An ache in his heart halted the spud shaving. What was this feeling? Paternal worry? Warmhearted pity? Or is this a bitter nostalgia, as he recalled his own youth as a late bloomer?

Ford shook the thoughts from his head. “Would you like to help me peel these, my boy? Might help dinner be made faster.”

Abuelita shot Ford a look of well-meaning sass as she laughed a bit and muttered something in Spanish. Something that prompted Soos to hush her and tell her not to use that type of language around houseguests.

Ford laughed in turn as he rose from his chair to get a second peeler, sliding past two bodies, both just as hard at work as him. Tommy, not knowing what else to do, sat in the chair next to Ford’s now empty one, grabbing an unpeeled spud and feeling the rough texture of it in his hands. He noted the eyes of it, the small indents, with his fingers. The earthy smell mixed in with the rest of the air by his face. Yep. It was most certainly a full-grown, grocery-store potato.

The moments after Ford’s return were tense ones. First, Ford almost handed Tommy the knife, before yanking it away hastily, fretting over the boy’s well being and cursing himself for not knowing better. Tommy then fumbled around with the safer, dull peeler and potato, not knowing where to start. He teared up a bit, in frustration, to which Ford replied with some advice and the first bit of Tommy’s potato skin in the bucket. The boy then continued where the doctor left off, wincing slightly as his arms still throbbed in pain.

In the time it took Tommy to peel the one single spud, Ford had already finished off the whole bowl, and was ready to take them to Soos to be cut. As the last shaving fell into the trash, the boy halted all movement and stared at his handiwork. His nose turned up at it, unhappy with how unhelpful he felt. Ford sensed this, and snatched the potato out of Tommy’s hand, adding it to the pile.

“Thank you for your hard work, my boy.”

His nose turned up even more.

“I didn't do jack. We should’ve just- **you** should've just gone without me! What even got done today?”

Ford sighed, and brought the boy in for a hug. Has this young man not seen the huge steps he’s taken in the past few days? A new job, a roof over his head, and food that’s his to eat was all right here before his eyes, despite being homeless only nights before. These were huge leaps for someone in his position. For anyone in his position. Yet still, the satisfaction or even gravity of these feats were lost on the boy, who only thought of what he still needed to do. Of what was still required of him. Not even his health mattered.

Ford still struggled with a similar habit.

He clasped the boy’s shoulder tighter, and rested his head on his.

“Dinner, for starters.”  
  
  
_**Kh'v jrlqj wr eh brxu Iudqnhqvwhlq!**_


End file.
